


How Strange it is to be Anything at All

by veeagainst



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bring Back Black Challenge, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-11
Updated: 2013-09-11
Packaged: 2017-12-26 06:51:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/962887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veeagainst/pseuds/veeagainst
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sirius falls beyond the veil, Remus will go to any length to bring him back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Strange it is to be Anything at All

**Author's Note:**

> This is a complete, chaptered fic, written just before the release of HBP. It's also the only fic I've ever written with song lyrics -- but I actually think it works shockingly well. I welcome any comments/feedback you'd like to leave! The list of songs with youtube links is at the end.

_But now we must pick up every piece_

_Of the life we used to love_

_Just to keep ourselves_

_At least enough to carry on_

_\-- Neutral Milk Hotel -- “Holland, 1945”_

            That he could have found Sirius again—that after thirteen years of separation, something like fate could have drawn him to Sirius like the needle of a compass is drawn to north—and that, after finding him, he could have relearned what it was to love him, to be in love with him—and that now, he could somehow have _lost_ Sirius again—

            Caught between the fragile line of night and the encroaching sunrise, here manifested as a pink glow off the concrete walls of functional pieces of Muggle architecture, Remus paces the path by the river.  Joggers rush past him, trapped beneath their headphones; early morning commuters move smoothly around him on their way to the glass towers of the City; the homeless stir under their filthy blankets and call out to the lone figure in a long, ragged overcoat walking down the middle of the path with glazed eyes.

            His mind moves almost too fast for him to keep up with it.  Nymphadora—no, Tonks now, she’s not a child anymore—to St. Mungo’s; she’ll have to be told when she awakens.  The brave face he’ll have to wear for Molly.  Another empty bed to come home to—but not one he can run away from, not this time, because there’s no one left to take care of Harry and he’ll stay on for James and Lily’s sake.  Voldemort no longer a lurking spectre, but exposed in the Ministry of Magic—a good move, or a bad one, Remus doesn’t know.  The war goes on and on and on, and his head won’t stop spinning as he flees the Ministry of Magic with ice in his veins.  Somehow, some way, he has lost Sirius again, and he cannot even begin to comprehend what it means, so he focuses on the irony and clings to that with his stubborn sense of a world that is bound to turn out right; it has always sustained him through all the things that would have killed lesser men.

            Remus walks until the sun comes up to illuminate the world, and finds that London will not suit his mood; he has walked without purpose or direction, all the way to the sidewalk outside the flat that he and Sirius shared when they were first out of Hogwarts, and the sun is shining down persistently, insistently, while tourists stream out of the tube station and around him and he stupidly wants grey skies and rain.

            This is where they came with all their youthful optimism, where they stayed long after that had faded, where they loved and fought and finally betrayed one another in ways that no Death Eater ever could have done.  This is where, in the shadow of what is to Remus not just another brick building down a lane somewhere in the vastness of London, but a representation of all that was good in his life that went bad, this is where Remus realises that Sirius is really lost.  He puts a hand up to touch his hair, to run his fingers through it and down his neck, and his hand touches the places where Sirius touched him before they ran into the final battle—into Sirius’s final battle, Remus amends, because he knows at least one more lies in his own future.  This is all he has left: the memory of a gentle hand, the ghost of fingertips that cannot soothe him anymore.  He walks away, does not know where he is going for a long time, and eventually tells himself that he is being selfish and that he must return to Order headquarters before someone comes out looking for him.  That would be the ultimate humiliation, and all that Remus has left now is his dignity. 

            Number Twelve Grimmauld Place bustles; the Order members are brisk, businesslike, speaking too loudly to cover up the emptiness in the corners of the dirty townhouse.  They know, like the walls, that the master has gone, and so they move awkwardly through rooms that have already begun to rot atop their foundations without a touch of the Black family magic to hold off the ages.  Remus learns from a red-eyed Molly that Dumbledore has gone to explain things to Harry, so he walks out of the kitchen, feeling unneeded.  Automatically, he walks up a flight of stairs.  He is exhausted; he wants nothing more than to fall into a bed—

            But he cannot make himself go up the next flight, because after that there is only one more staircase and a closed door—and beyond that, an empty bed, sheets in disarray and Sirius’s things everywhere, the smell of him everywhere—

            Remus can feel himself starting to lose control, and he steps into the nearest room—a small room with a desk and two bookshelves, that belonged once to Sirius’s father, if Remus recalls correctly—and  places a locking charm on the door.  His hand does not shake when he wields the wand, but a second after the word of the spell is out of his mouth he is shaking so badly that he can barely stand.  It’s as if the moon is rising, this sickening anticipation that builds inside him.  Remus gropes for something to hold onto and gathers books from the shelves into his arms as he crumples to the floor.  Curled against the wall, he tries to think, to order his mind, but the feeling is the same as it ever is when he can’t hold onto consciousness anymore, and so he begins to whisper—a chant, a prayer, a spell…

            “Come back, please, come back, Sirius, wherever you are, if you can hear me, please, come back, and if you can’t, then hold on, I’m coming for you…”

 

 

_Now all the marchers descend from high_   
_I will dedicate all of my awakenings to this._   
_And damn all the angles that oppress my sight…_

_\--The Decemberists -- “The Tain”_

            Sirius opens his eyes—

            And opens his eyes—

            And opens them again, for what seems like an infinite moment of darkness.  The chant in his head—the thing that has made him awaken—stifles and dies.  This is a dark that his eyes cannot adjust to, that he cannot hope to penetrate, a broken, thick, dead dark—

            Dead.  Sirius’s hands fly, one to his wand, one to punch whomever has covered his eyes, because whatever surrounds him feels like the crunch of dead leaves in sickly forests, like the feathers of dead birds left lying on the sidewalk to soak up winter pollution, like the taste of a graveyard after a burial, and it terrifies him. 

            He cannot find his wand, but his other hand connects with something wooden and rotting.  A splinter embeds itself in the palm of his hand like a spider crawling into an open wound; it feels infected as it slides under his skin.  Sirius shudders, recoils, and curls into himself.  He wonders if the Dementors are coming.

            Somewhere in the darkness, something snaps, ignites, and the heavy smell of sulfur laces the air.  Sirius’s eyes recoil against the sudden flare of brightness, but he leans forward, forces himself to see: a lantern, dangling from a rusted metal rod that curves down with its weight and hangs over the middle of a rowboat.  The boat’s wooden sides are rotting, alternately cracked and dried wood and green streaks of algae that is browning before his eyes.  Sirius does not think to be scared that the boat will sink, despite the fact that it is barely shipshape; whatever laps at its sides is thick, viscous, like cold oil, and he instinctively knows that it is such a false approximation of what liquid should be that the movement of the boat is merely an illusion of floating. 

            Beneath the light, there is a boatman, but Sirius cannot see his face.  He does not want to, because he cannot see the hands that move the oars, but the oars move nevertheless.  He directs his gaze down at the side of the boat and watches the algae writhe across the wood and die. 

            “Not dead yet?” the boatman asks, in a hoarse whisper.  “Don’t mind the boat, she’ll carry you safely across.”

            Sirius twists around, away from the boatman, and squints through the darkness towards what he hopes is the shore.  He can see nothing.

            “Where am I?” he asks, but his voice comes out as a gasp, because there is not enough air to breathe. 

            The boatman sighs, a long sound that gets inside of Sirius’s bones and shakes him.  “I hate it when this happens,” he mutters, slapping one of the oars hard against the side of the boat.  A chunk of wood snaps off and disappears into the liquid.

            “When what happens?” Sirius gasps, trying to draw in enough air to keep himself from fainting.  The atmosphere seems to be thinner and thinner every second. 

            “When they wake up,” the boatman says.  He pauses and adjusts the lantern, which is dimming; there is not enough oxygen to feed the gas fire within its dirt-encrusted glass globe.  “They’re not supposed to wake up.”  He waves a hand and the flame goes out.  “Damned waste for the undead anyway,” he continues, and this time there is a definite sulky edge to his voice.

            “No, please,” Sirius whispers.  “Turn the light back on.”  He can’t breathe and his head is spinning; he cannot tell if his vision is narrowing the way it does before he is likely to faint because there is no light. 

            “No use,” comes the boatman’s voice.  “No use whatsoever.  By the time we reach the far shore, you won’t need it.”

            Sirius clings to the side of the boat.  Somewhere inside his head, he can hear someone telling him to hold on, but he cannot recognize the voice.  He is too shaky.  “How much longer?” he manages.

            “Depends,” the boatman says, unhelpfully.

            “On what?”

            “How long it takes you to give up.”

            Patience has never been Sirius’s virtue, but he knows that he can wait.  So long as it is within his power, he can wait.  He is supposed to hold on, and he will.  He draws in deep breaths, as many as he can, and anchors himself to the sides of the boat with both hands.  He can feel the algae beneath his fingers, and is it his imagination or has it stopped drying and shrinking?

            The boatman lets out a monumental sigh.  “It’s not my fault.  Don’t punish me.”

            “Punish you?” Sirius repeats.

            “I have a job to do, and you’re making it very hard.  I can’t move my oars if you don’t give in.”

            Sirius breathes a few times, and then says, “You’re taking me to the land of the dead, right?”

            “I’m taking you from one shore to another,” the boatman says irritably.  “Whatever you may find upon the far shore, it will be different from the shore you came from.”

            Sirius does not know how he has gotten here; he remembers Bellatrix coming at him, a stunning spell, and then a long time of nothing.  He breathes again, flexes his fingers, senses all the strength within them.  He is stronger already, perhaps.  “Do you know how I came to be on that shore?”

            “No,” says the boatman.  “Not my business.”  There is a pause; Sirius cannot hear the boatman, but he gets the impression that he is waiting.  Then: “You’re costing me good coins, you know.”

            “Did I have good coins?” Sirius asks, wondering where they could have come from. 

            “Oh, yes,” the boatman says, and something terribly cold touches Sirius’s chest.  “Took them right off of here.”

            Sirius puts up a hand to where the touch was and finds the broken threads where his buttons once were.  “Where do you spend them?” he asks.

            “Spend them?” the boatman repeats.  “What would I spend them on?”

            “Then why care about the coins?”

            “I’ve got my reasons,” the boatman snaps.  “Shouldn’t matter to you.”

            Sirius breathes in again.  Maybe there is more air.  Finally, he has become scared; emotions are coming back too.  He doesn’t know what to do, except to listen to that voice, to hold on because someone is coming for him.  The only person it can possibly be… he doesn’t know.  The edges of his mind are dark; he only knows the immediate, and that there is someone who would come after him.  That’s something, at least.  The air tastes terrible. 

            “You could maybe spare some more coins,” the boatman says, petulant now. 

            “What?” Sirius asks, startled out of his thoughts.

            “Some more coins,” the boatman repeats.  “I can hear your voice.  You’re a posh lord or something.  You must have more on you.”

            “Will you take me back if I do?” Sirius asks. 

            The boatman actually cackles at that.  “Take you back?  What would you want that for?  Don’t you want to see who’s waiting for you on the far shore?”

            James’s face rises in Sirius’s mind.  Not healthy, happy James, but the bloodied, broken James that Sirius found in Godric’s Hollow.  James is dead, because there is too much blood, but somehow he is calling to Sirius… he needs help, he wants Sirius to come…

            “No,” Sirius whispers, more in horror than denial.  “Is that what I will see?”  He isn’t ready to face that, to hear James calling out and to know that he can do nothing.

            “Oh, yes,” the boatman says merrily.  “Maybe his wife, too.”

            Sirius jumps.  “You know…”

            “What was her name?” the boatman murmurs.  “Lilith?  Liza?”

            “Lily,” Sirius whispers.  “Lily Potter.”

            “Yes, she and the boy came across together… I remember them a bit…”

            Sirius puts his hands up and covers his eyes.  “I won’t see this again,” he says aloud, because this is just like when he was in Azkaban: all he can see are James and Lily, dead, accusatory, sprawled across the remains of a child’s crib.

            “You will have to,” the boatman says.  “The longer you put it off, the more you’ll see.”

            Sirius shakes his head.  He won’t give in; someone wants him to wait.  He waited twelve years in the dark pit of Azkaban; this is no different, and he can wait again.  Life is violently, terribly unfair.  His youth gone, his dignity and any chance he might have had at a happy life systematically stripped from him, all he has left is a hard core of anger.  He hates life so much that he will dig his claws into it until he squeezes out what he wants. 

            “I won’t see them again,” he repeats, stronger this time.  He reaches into a pocket and tugs out a handful of sickles.  Imperiously, he says, “Relight the lantern, boatman.  We’ll be here a while.”

 

 

_“Oh, adhere to me_   
_For we are bound by symmetry_   
_And whatever differences our lives have been_   
_We together make a limb.”_

_\--The Decemberists -- “Red Right Ankle”_

            The words of the books that lie spread open across the floor have all come together inside of Remus’s mind, and he lies amongst them, wearing a robe despite the thick summer heat.  He shivers under the dark red ceiling and puts his hands inside of his collar, trying to warm them, but he cannot stop the cold that has moved into his body.  For weeks, he’s been cold, wrapped in as many blankets as he can, in Sirius’s old robes, in magical flames and in the greasy fire emanating from the library fireplace, and as he shifts his legs and tries to restore feeling to his toes, he knows that he is doing something right. 

            The books rustle in the heat from the fire, curling up their pages in protest.  Remus whispers the words of the spell, hoping that no one has plans to come back to Grimmauld Place for the rest of the week.  Molly had come by a few days ago, and although she said nothing, Remus knows that she’d been aghast to see the state he’d fallen into without Sirius.  He’d only made himself presentable to come to King’s Cross to meet Harry, and even then, he knows that he’d looked ragged.  He simply doesn’t have the strength, not when he needs every second, every ounce of energy, to read the secret words written inside of these books left behind by generations of dark wizards and then to act upon them. 

            Now the spell ought to be done, the magic bound into his veins, but first he has to bind himself to Sirius.  The coming full moon – two nights away—is his deadline, because he knows that after that he will not have the strength to complete the spell. 

            Remus sits up, and surveys the room.  The thick woodcuts of _Binding the Dead_ are within hand’s reach, and he picks up the book gingerly and holds together the ancient binding with one hand as he turns the pages with the other.  He knows that he has to be careful not to bring out the blacker aspects of the magic described within, but he has arrived at a point where he does not know how to proceed without consulting books of necromancy. 

            Five books later, he realizes that he needs even more help.  He steps outside of the library and into the semi-darkness of the hallway, peering around corners for Kreacher and any paintings that may want to make a racket.  He had already gotten into a row with Mrs. Black about her son earlier in the week, and that has been a waste of time.  He pauses to lean against the wall and breathe in—he can never seem to catch his breath anymore, and he takes that to be a good sign as well, but it also makes him shaky and slow when he needs to be steady and quick—and then moves down the stairs and out the door. 

            As Number Twelve Grimmauld Place disappears into the surrounding houses, Remus apparates to Knockturn Alley to consult with the publishers of _Binding the Dead_.

            Once there, he heads immediately into an ancient bookshop and publishing house with a wooden sign depicting two scribes chained to desks hanging over its door.  “The author is… well… long dead,” says the woman behind the counter.  She has pale skin and large, limpid dark eyes.  Viewed only in the dim candlelight of the shop, she is beautiful, but Remus guesses that in the light of day she would probably look as dead as the author.

            “Is there no way to speak with him?” Remus asks offhandedly.  This is not why he’d come, but he knows how to lead a conversation with this type; he’s done it enough speaking to gangs of werewolves for the Order.  “I mean, he’s the author of one of the major texts on necromancy.”

            “Certainly,” she says, her voice thick and unctuous, “but we cannot go raising the dead every time we have a question to ask of them.”

            Remus frowns deeply and said, “I’d like my money back, then.”  He flips open the back cover and seeks a price to ask.  Someone had written in archaic script “half a knut,” but clearly inflation has to be taken into account.

            “There are others who may be able to help you before you consider such drastic measures,” says the woman, glancing nervously over her shoulder at the backroom. 

            Remus holds the book open to its back cover as if he is still looking for the price.  “Such as…?”

            She provides him with a spell that will take him “where he needs to go,” as she said, and Remus, feeling reckless, steps into the street and immediately performs it. 

            Total darkness greets him, but somewhere he can hear footfalls and many low voices.  He puts out a hand and touches cold stone; he turns around and touches something that feels suspiciously like the bones of a human foot.  Fear coils in his stomach, and he draws out his wand and whispers, “ _Lumos_.”

            He is inside of a large tomb, standing between a marble wall and a decayed velvet pedestal with a skeleton in moth-eaten military dress lying atop it.  Remus curses the woman in the publishing house and blasts out the side of the tomb with a powerful spell. 

            When the dust clears, and the screaming stops, Remus finds himself standing in the midst of a group of tourists; he has just erupted from a marble monument in the Poets’ Corner of Westminster Abbey.  He stares at them, wand out, and they stare at him, varying degrees of shock and horror on their faces, for a very long time.  Someone takes a picture and the flashbulb nearly blinds Remus. 

            Suddenly a hoarse voice yells, “ _Obliviate_!  _Reparo_!”

            Then a strong arm grips Remus’s and drags him into a hidden doorway, down a flight of stairs, and into a candlelit octagonal room with stone walls. 

            “Just what in the hell are you doing, son?” demands an old man in a frayed cassock.  There is a white collar around his neck.

            Remus dusts off his robes and takes deep breaths, trying to steady himself.  “I can explain,” he says eventually, raising his eyes to meet the old priest’s.

            There is a moment of silence, and Remus knows that the other man is practising Occlumency.  Remus asks, “Can you help me?”

            The man looks down at a battered wooden desk covered in curling parchment and mutters, “Damned publishers, handing out out-of-date addresses.  They’ve shifted the tombs around a bit to make it easier on the tourists up there.”

            “Location bound magic drifts temporally, anyway,” Remus says absently.  “I couldn’t tell you how old that spell was.”

            “Certainly, certainly,” the priest says.  He frowns then and asks, “Tell me, who’s the pope?”

            Remus tells him.

            “Bloody hell, I’ve been down here too long,” the priest says, rubbing a hand across his face.  “Has the false church been destroyed yet?”

            “The Church of England?” Remus asks. 

            “Heresy,” the priest says, but without much conviction.  He looks to the door and sighs.  “They only keep me here because they don’t know I exist.”  The door slams shut and Remus jumps and looks back at it.

            “No need to worry, son,” the priest says.  Remus turns back and sees that he is being studied closely.  “I know that you have come down enough dark paths already to not be afraid of the ghosts in a crypt.”

            “Father,” Remus says, “I need to know how to bind myself to the dead.”

            The priest sighs again and sinks down into his chair.  “I know it,” he says, “but why?”  He puts a hand to his temple and adds, “Is he worth it?  You know that these things are still considered mortal sin.”

            Remus swallows and says, “It’s not for me.”  A lie, isn’t it?  How can he possibly tell himself that this is for Harry, when he’s come so far and sacrificed so much by sustaining himself with the memory of the only man he’s ever loved?  He pushes these thoughts down inside of himself and repeats, “It’s not for me.”

            “For whom, then?” the priest asks.  “I know that you love him.”

            “I love them both,” Remus replies, the words jumbled.  “It’s for his godson.”

            “What good can this do?  Do you know what the land of the dead is like?  What it will take to bring him out of it?”

            “I’ve read the books,” Remus says.  “I know the dangers.”  He doesn’t know them; he read over them, eyes glossy and brain caught up in other thoughts.  He cannot bring himself to know them.

            “And this is worth it?”

            “Yes.”

            The priest rises and takes Remus’s hands.  “You have already done half of the work.  You’re freezing to death.”

            “Am I?” Remus asks, faint.  He’s forgetting what his limbs feel like; he can’t breathe very well.

            “You’ve bound yourself to him somehow—an incredibly powerful emotional connection, maybe—and now it’s killing you both.”

            “Oh,” Remus says.  He continues without thinking: “Maybe that would be for the best.”

            “Not for the godson, is it?” the priest asks. 

            “I am so selfish,” Remus whispers, and he feels the full weight of his shame.  “I love him so much.”

            The priest’s hands are very warm where they touch him.  The gentle fabric of the cassock falls onto Remus’s wrists and leaves strangely comforting sensations there.  “I believe you,” the priest says softly.  “But that is no excuse.”

            “Please,” Remus says, not even sure what he’s asking for anymore. 

            “No need to ask.  You’re already close.  He hasn’t crossed to the far shore yet.”

            “How do you know?” Remus whispers.  Hope flares inside of him, but is faint and wavering. 

            “Because of your condition.  You’re holding him between the great shores of life and death with your willpower alone.”

            Remus expels a breath sharply and immediately regrets it when he cannot get air back into his lungs again.  He doubles over into a coughing fit, and the priest waits, a hand on Remus’s back, until he manages to catch his breath again.  Finally, he asks, “Who are you?”

            The priest smiles, terribly sad and solemn.  “I once knew the author of the book you have read.  I was his confessor.  I am now, as I have been for six hundred years, the Vatican’s representative in Westminster Abbey.”  He sighs, and the smile disappears.  “I imagine that they have forgotten me now, but I do still receive a stipend from Rome once a year.  Unfortunately I cannot spend gold florins in the usual shops anymore.”

            Remus does not try to take in this speech.  “Why…”

            “Oh yes,” the priest says, “I know that everyone here has forgotten about the Holy Mother Church.  Don’t you worry, son, I am not as out of touch with the modern world as you think I am.  I have even ridden on the underground railroad.”  He pauses, as if waiting for Remus to congratulate him, and then continues, “But I have not forgotten my flock.  Some of the old wizarding families still come to me to give black masses on the major holidays, and I am always here to hear confession.”

            Remus, who has never been religious a day in his life – whose left wing atheist parents are undoubtedly standing on the shores of the dead right now, shaking their ghostly fists – says, “If you haven’t forgotten your flock, then you must guide me.  I don’t know where to go from here.”

            The priest nods his head.  “Tell me about the man you are trying to bring back.”

            Remus tells him, hesitantly, unsure if the priest has read a newspaper in the past fifteen years.  It quickly becomes apparent that he has not, but he does recognize the name of Black.

            “They were one of the families who came to black mass,” he says happily.  “Every Christmas and Easter.  I remember… there were two little boys, last I saw them, but it has been a few years since they came.”

            These words are enough to induce vertigo in Remus, and he puts a hand over his eyes.  “You knew Sirius.”

            “Maybe,” the priest says.  “The years… they blend together.  I can’t keep track of these things anymore.  Maybe I knew his father, or his grandfather.”

            Remus says, “What must I do?”

            The priest lifts up a thick Bible and begins to read from it in Latin.  Remus does not pay attention; his mind is sluggish from the lack of oxygen and he cannot focus on the words.  Eventually the priest closes the book and says, “You must start where he began.”

            “How?” Remus asks.  “Where?”

            The priest sighs.  “To the source of his blood.  That is where you will find the magic to complete your spell.”

            “I don’t know where you mean,” Remus says, growing desperate.

            “The Black family crypt.”

           

           

_I gave the other half of the moon to you_   
_So you wouldn't forget me while I'm gone_

_\-- Eisley -- “Plenty of Paper”_

            Fragments of the moon drift past Sirius’s mind like clouds over the face of the sun, and he stretches out to watch them in the perfect dark.  He has come to the point of hallucination, the place where he would often find himself in Azkaban, except in this place there is no real moon to guide him through the long nights, so he has to make up his own.

            He has long ago run out of things to pass off as coins to the boatman, which is why he has also run out of light.  His body has a strange feel to it, like it cannot move forward; when he chews off his fingernails, they do not grow back.  Only by holding onto the thought of the moon traversing the sky nightly can he remember what time is, how it travels through space, and the implications of such a complicated astronomical movement.  He is certain, as he was in Azkaban, that it is necessary that he know these things, and so he makes them the only things inside of his mind.  After all, if he ever stops knowing that time passes, then he will not understand what it means to wait.

            In the bow of the ever-sinking craft, the boatman shifts and twitches.  He hates his passenger, but he can’t do anything about it.  Some force previously unexperienced – at least by him, though there have certainly been rumours of it happening like this before – in this intermediary realm entraps them both, and all he can do is listen to the way that the substance surrounding the boat laps at the worm-eaten wood.

            Sirius watches the moon drift past behind his eyelids and listens for the beloved voice to come again.

 

 

_This is the story of the boys who loved you_

_Loved you then and love you still…_

_Some had crawled their way into your heart_   
_To rend your ventricles apart_

_\-- The Decemberists, “Red Right Ankle”_

            Down the stairs and into the dark corridors of the earth, Remus walks.  The door to the wine cellar of Number Twelve Grimmauld Place creaks like a tree capsizing in a strong wind, and as Remus pushes it open, wand held out before himself, he imagines that he is tearing out the very roots of the house. 

            He remembers Sirius telling him, when they first moved into the house, that he would never go down into the wine cellar, because it doubled as the family crypt, and his father had once locked him down there for a night as a punishment.

            “I don’t remember what I did,” Sirius had said, that familiar haunted look inside of his eyes, “but I remember that I could hear all of them whispering and shifting in their tombs all night long.  They were disappointed in me.  They said I wasn’t a true Black.”

            Now Remus steps inside the dank, stone-walled room and hopes that Sirius was – is – enough of a Black for this to work.  He places a candle in the centre of the room and lays out the book.  He cannot feel his toes or fingers, they are so cold.  Above him, the moon has risen, and it is a night before full, tugging at his insides and making his senses more acute.  He can smell the decay, mingled with the wine in its barrels, and he carefully avoids looking at the rotting coffins and broken-open crypts whose contents spill out into the room at odd angles.  He does not know how Sirius ever survived a night here, for Sirius as a child had been known first of all for his active imagination. 

            Remus speaks the words of the enchantment and can feel something change inside his veins; within the coffin nearest him, something shifts and creaks, and Remus draws out his wand and shuts his eyes.  Blood is crucial, here, in this house, a temple to the holy power of the thick substance that binds together the organs of the body and provides life and connectivity and unbroken lines—blood, which Remus draws from his own hand with a knife, not watching the wound close over but knowing that it does, because he is a werewolf and his blood is different from anyone’s within this room—blood, which he spills onto the parchment before him, onto the holy pages of the book—blood, which becomes much more than a physical component when it comes into contact with magic—

            All of Remus’s blood suddenly tugs, realigns itself inside of his veins, and fingertips, and there is a great shifting outside of himself, as all of the Blacks awaken inside of their eternal sleep, for here is a halfblood forcing himself into their bloodlines—

            They are arrayed along a distant shoreline, caught in a strange dawn that they have not seen since their own journey across the dark lake, and they can see a boat, floating not so far out, unmoving and trapped in shadow.  Something strange is happening onboard that boat, and they move forward as one, their blood holding them together and drawing them forward as they step gingerly into the lapping tidal pull of the lake…

 

 

_Oh the wind is blowing, it hurts your skin_   
_As you climb up hillside, forest and fen._   
_Your arms full of lullabies, orchids and wine_   
_Your memories wrapped within paper and twine._

_\-- The Decemberists – “The Tain”_

            The air is stunningly clear and abundant, sharp and crystalline cold.  Remus stands, breathing it in, and does not open his eyes until he hears something crashing through what sounds like a forest.

            When he opens his eyes, he realizes that that is because he is _in_ a forest.  There are pine trees stretching up to the sky and white-barked trees with tiny green leaves; tall, pale grasses that brush against his legs, and long purple wildflowers.  Remus puts out a hand and touches the bark of one of the white trees, his fingers tracing the edge of a knothole, trying to make sense of what has happened.  The thing crashing about continues, coming closer and closer, but Remus feels stronger than he ever has in his life, as if he could bend the forest to his will if he wanted, so he does not bother to take out his wand.

            The trees directly in front of him part, and a man emerges, doubled over and gasping for air, his long black hair hanging down around his face and his thin hands clutching at his knees.  He is wearing a black robe, and when he looks up, he has pale grey eyes that focus on Remus alone.

            “Sirius,” Remus breathes. 

            Sirius brushes his fringe out of his eyes and says, “Where are we?”

            Remus shakes his head and stays where he is.  He has imagined this moment, but he cannot make himself move forward and touch Sirius for fear that the other man will prove to be ephemeral. 

            “I was on a boat…” Sirius begins, but then he stops and frowns.  “I don’t know where we are.”

            “I don’t either,” Remus manages. 

            Sirius steps forward and takes Remus’s shaking hands.  “Is this real?” he asks.  Suddenly he sounds vulnerable.  “Please say this is real.”

            “I don’t know,” Remus whispers.  Sirius’s hands are so very cold. 

            Sirius bends down and removes one hand from Remus’s to pick one of the flowers.  The long string of purple petals bends under his fingers but will not break.  “Lupines,” he says tonelessly.  He straightens, empty-handed, and looks back into Remus’s eyes.  “What have you done?”

            Remus shrugs.  He cannot take his eyes off of Sirius long enough to think of anything else.

            “Oh, Moony,” Sirius whispers.  “You were the voice.  You were the one telling me to wait.”

            Remus is startled out of his reverie.  “Yes, I suppose I was.  Subconsciously.”

            “What sort of dark magic have you done to get me here?” Sirius asks. 

            “Where is here?” Remus replies.  Clutching Sirius’s hand, he steps forward through the forest and comes to one of the pine trees.  “This type doesn’t grow in Britain.”

            Sirius is looking away, through the trees.  “No, we’re not in Britain anymore,” he says softly.  He squeezes Remus’s hand very tightly as he says it.

            “What makes you…” Remus begins, but then he sees the strange shape in the distance too.  Together they walk forward, until they come out upon a ridge overlooking a vast, empty valley.  The wind rips at their robes and tears into their lungs; in the distance, Remus can see a massive chain of mountains, rising with snow-capped tips in a stately line along the far edge of the valley. 

            Sirius’s free hand slides into Remus’s pocket and draws out a book stained copper with blood.  “What is this?” he asks.

            Remus opens the cover and peers down at what was once _Binding the Dead_ —or so he guesses, because that was the only book that should have been covered with blood—but he swears that he left that book lying on the floor of the Black family crypt when he said the spell—

            There is no title page.  Instead, there is a page of densely packed words, written in a familiar messy scrawl: Sirius’s handwriting.  Remus reads the first few sentences, and realizes what he is holding; Sirius understands a moment later.

            “This is me,” he whispers.  “This is a book of my memories, of all the things that make up me.”

            “Yes,” Remus says, “yes, I think so.”

            “Written in blood,” Sirius adds.

            “Whose blood, I wonder,” Remus murmurs.  He holds up his hand and sees that the place where he cut into it has scarred over; Sirius’s fingers, and then his lips, trace up the scar. 

            “I don’t understand this,” Sirius says, his mouth still on the palm of Remus’s hand.

            “I don’t either.  I think that I… made this book become… real.  Manifest itself.  By offering my blood for yours.”  Remus curls the fingers into the silky black hair hanging around Sirius’s face.  Sirius shifts a little, moving his face away, and Remus tenses.  “Are you angry with me?”

            “No,” Sirius says.  “No, I don’t think so.”  He cocks his head to the side and frowns.  “Was it hard?”

            “Yes.”

            “Why did you do it?”

            The question hurts, and Remus doesn’t know what to say.  Sirius sees that in his eyes and says softly, “I wouldn’t have hesitated, Moony.  I would have chased you through the veil.”  He smiles gently.  “Then where would we be?”

            “I couldn’t follow you,” Remus says shakily.  “I was holding Harry.”

            Sirius sweeps forward and wraps his arms around Remus, folding him into his embrace and burying his face in Remus’s neck.  “Thank you,” he whispers, “thank you, thank you.”

            “And anyway,” Remus says, drawing his hands up to encircle Sirius’s waist, “anyway, it’s not fair.  It just isn’t fair that _you_ should be the one to die.  You deserve to live, you deserve to be free, to be the one to look after Harry…”

            “And I deserve more time with you,” Sirius says.

            Remus hesitates.  “Yes,” he says finally.  “I suppose there was a lot of selfish desire involved.”

            A laugh into his neck, and then Sirius kisses his way up Remus’s neck to his mouth.  “So long as you didn’t sell your soul.”

            “No,” Remus says, “I don’t think I did.  I’m not really sure.”  He makes a show of patting himself down, his hands gratuitously touching Sirius everywhere he can.  “It feels like I’ve still got it.”

            “Honestly,” Sirius says, “what did you do?”

            “I skirted around dark magic as well as I could, and I found a few loopholes that involved using your family in interesting new ways.”

            “Did they appreciate it?” Sirius asks.

            “Not at all,” Remus says, smiling.  

            “Ah,” Sirius says.  For a moment they look at one another, and then Sirius says, “I don’t care where we are, right now.  I love you, and we’ve been apart too long.”  He leans forward to kiss Remus again, this time with purpose.  Remus recognizes Sirius’s style, knows that when he’s being kissed like the world is ending it probably is, and, clinging together, they move back into the shelter of the trees and lie down in the grass.

 

 

_Under the great North star_   
_Try to work out where you are_   
_In the silence of the sea_   
_I don't know where I'll be_

_\-- Coldplay -- “Talk”_    

            They are watching the sunset over the mountain range in the distance, leaning against one another, when Remus realizes that the full moon is rising.  He squeezes Sirius’s hand more tightly and waits for the shuddering transformation to take him over, but several minutes pass, and nothing more miraculous happens than the moonrise.  Finally, awe tingeing his voice, Sirius says, “Where are we?”

            Remus is almost too stunned for words.  He cannot stop staring at the sky.  “I haven’t seen a full moon through human eyes since… since I was a child.  I don’t even remember the last time I saw it.”

            “I know, love,” Sirius says quietly.  “But what does it mean?”

            Remus says nothing, because he thinks he knows.

            “I can’t get back home from here, can I?” Sirius asks.

            Still, Remus is silent.  He can feel something stinging his eyes, and he looks up at the full moon and hates it more than he ever has.

            Sirius persisted.  “Is this like… what’s that myth… Orpheus and Eurydice?”

            Remus shook his head.  “I haven’t made any deals with anyone,” he said.  “Everything I’ve done to get you back, I’ve done on my own terms.”

            “What does that have to do with it?”

            Remus hesitates; tries to think of the necessary words.  “Somehow… this is what I’ve willed to be true.  This is where my imagination placed us.  It’s not a real place, and you’re not really out of… wherever you are.”

            “The lake,” Sirius whispers.  “I’m still on the boat.”

            “The boat?”

            “It’s hard to explain,” Sirius says.  “I think I’m caught between two worlds.  Life and death, as it were, only I think they’re two very different things from what we all think they are.  I think that we haven’t even guessed at what lies before us… or the nature of what lies behind us.”

            Remus glances at him, startled at this uncharacteristic philosophizing.  Sirius is a man of action.  He ought to be leaping up, he ought to be running forward without planning—

            “What will you do now?” Sirius asks suddenly. 

            “I’ll go back,” Remus says desperately.  “I’ll work out another spell.  I’ll… I don’t know, Sirius, just wait for me.  Please.”  He can’t give this up, not again.           Sirius’s fingers smooth across Remus’s face.  “I won’t,” he says lightly.  “Hell, I’ve held on for a long time; I can hold on some more.”  A sad smile slides across his face and he asks, “How is Harry?”

            “Well enough,” Remus says recklessly.  “He misses you.”

            Sirius nods gravely.  “For you both,” he says.  “For either of you alone, I’d try to fight off death, but for both of you, I have to.”

            Remus senses that the time has come to part; there are, he has realized, no stars anywhere in the sky.  He holds onto Sirius, but things seem to be shifting, pulling away at the seams, and they fall farther and farther apart; the mountains twist and distort into the moonlight, and the trees of the forest rise up and enclose Remus in an embrace so tight that it hurts, and he blacks out.

 

 

_All secrets sleep in winter clothes_

_With one you loved so long ago_

_Now he don't even know his name_

_\-- Neutral Milk Hotel -- “In the Aeroplane Over the Sea”_

            When Remus wakes up, he is lying on the floor of the Black family crypt and wine cellar, and he is shaking, and covered in blood.  He has been, he can tell from the pain in his joints, a wolf.  He sits up and then falls back again as a wave of nausea hits him.  Something is stabbing him in the back and he twists and rolls off of it: a thick book.  Remus touches it because he thinks it is _Binding the Dead_ , but it is shaped differently and all of the words are written in a faded, reddish-brown lettering…

            Remus turns the book on its side and flips it open as best he can, landing several pages from the beginning.  He reads:

            “I don’t want to go to Hogwarts.  I’m scared to leave home and Reg.  Bella says I will be a Slytherin and she will look after me, but I what if I’m not a Slytherin?”

            He flips forward. 

            “I think that Remus is lying to me when he says that his mother is ill and that’s why he goes home so much.  I really, really think he’s lying.  And I’m very worried about him because he always looks so awful when he comes back from wherever it is that he goes.”

            Remus runs his fingers down the page lovingly and moves forward.

            “I can’t be Secret Keeper because if Remus is a Death Eater and he asks me where James and Lily are I don’t know if I’ll be able to not tell him…”

            Quickly, Remus moves away from this page, because he cannot stand to read it.  He skips most of the rest of the book, knowing that it is Azkaban and running away and Grimmauld Place. 

            He comes to the back, which is full of blank pages.  For some seconds he stares at them, trying to take in what that means, and then forces himself to sit up and turn to the last page with writing on it. 

            “Hold on,” it says.  And: “Wait for Moony.”

            Remus draws in a sharp breath; watches the words slide across the page over and over again.  He can feel his bones realigning, all of his cuts healing with the tingle of magic, but he is cold again.  He is breathless again.  He stands, shaking, and looks around the tombs. 

            “What can I do?” he asks.  “What is there left to give?”  In the silence of the grave, he imagines he can hear them insulting him; they have seen him transform and they have seen him lose his dignity, but he can’t bring himself to feel shame.  He is like a broken open shell; there is nothing inside of him anymore, because it has all run out onto the floor.  He stoops down and touches the pool where his leg used to lie.  “Is this what you want?” he asks, slightly delirious.  “My blood?”

            There is no answer from the legions of Blacks, and Remus turns away and limps up the stairs, cradling the book against his side.  He comes into the kitchen and collapses at the table, his strength leaving him by degrees.  He manages to open the book but the pages keep changing, shifting around, some blank, some faded, some missing large sections while others are crammed full of words written on top of one another.  Remus can’t make sense of the writing, because it has transfigured into another language, or the letters have stopped being letters and have become hieroglyphs; he can’t make sense of himself anymore either, and he’s too far gone to be scared.  He clutches at the book as the cold closes in around him.  Somewhere far ahead, he thinks he sees the desolate shore of a lake. 

 

 

_Kiss me and crucify_   
_This unholy notion of the mythic powers of love_

_\-- Rufus Wainwright -- “Go or Go Ahead”_  

            There is a crash, and a flare as the bottom of the boat catches fire.  Sirius opens his eyes and sees the lantern break into a thousand fragments of glass.  One cuts his leg badly; another flies out of the boat and disappears without a splash.  The boatman yells and jumps up; one of his oars follows the glass and Sirius knows they will not see it again. 

            “What have you done?” the boatman demands.  “You’ve lit my boat on fire!”

            “I haven’t,” Sirius says, confusion making him indignant.  He stares down at the flames, which are burning brightly.  He remembers a forest grove, the cool white of the skin on the inside of Remus’s long muscular thigh...

            “You have!” the boatman returns, in a way that says he doesn’t know what else to say because such a situation has never before arisen.  “Put it out!”

            Sirius continues to stare, fragments of his mind piecing together where he is and where he has been.  Then he hears the slide of oars and twists to see a boat drawing alongside them.  Another boatman, identical to his own, pulls the decaying wooden oars; inside, a man lies against the seat.  Blood trickles from his mouth.

            “Remus!” Sirius is standing before he considers the consequences, and the boat tips to the side dangerously.  He scrambles for the edge, avoiding the flame.  “Remus, wake up!  Now!”

            “No!” the boatman shouts.  He stands too.  “Stop it!”

            “I won’t!” Sirius shouts back, grabbing for the remaining oar.  Then he realizes that the boatman isn’t speaking to him; he’s speaking to something—somethings—that have risen from the lake and are tearing off parts of the boat.

            “Padfoot?”  Remus’s voice, weak.  “Padfoot… are you there?”

            Sirius tears his eyes away from the things and reaches out to Remus.  “I’m here!”

            Remus opens his eyes and Sirius sees them go wide.  One shaking hand comes up to wipe the blood from his lip; Remus stares wonderingly at it and then asks, “Sirius… what’s happening?”

            “You’ve got to get up,” Sirius says.  “Stand up, Moony.  Now.”  His boat is falling apart, and the lake is leaking in, black and creeping towards his feet.  He is desperately afraid of it touching him. 

            Remus obeys, but he is shaking with fatigue.  His boatman begins to say something but Remus turns to him and says, “You’ve no claim to me.”

            “Then why are you here?” the boatman demands.  Sirius’s boatman lunges forward for his oar, but Sirius hits him in the side of the head with it, hard, and the boatman tumbles out and into the lake without a sound. 

            “It’s a mistake,” Remus says clearly.  “Take me back.”

            “As if I haven’t heard that before,” the boatman says, and resumes rowing. 

            “Moony!” Sirius yells, and Remus turns to look at him, his face perfectly calm.

            “You’ve lost your boatman.”

            “I’m losing my boat!” Sirius replies.  He can’t see what’s eating it, but something is.  He’s standing atop what was the bench, and he can see the prow not so much sinking as dissolving into the lake.

            “Yes, but you’ve no one left to row you across,” Remus says, quiet triumph in his voice.

            “Moony, don’t you see, you do!”

            “I know it,” Remus says.  “But you don’t.”

            For a moment their eyes meet and then Sirius shakes his head.  “We are not agreeing to this,” he says.  “I am not leaving you here.”

            Remus pauses, cocking his head, and then asks, “What happens if we jump into the lake?”

            Sirius shakes his head, helplessly. 

            “It seems to be our only option,” Remus says.  His boatman is pulling him further and further away from Sirius; he has to raise his voice now to be heard, and he is disappearing into shadow.  His voice is becoming breathless.

            Sirius is almost into the lake anyway, standing as he is upon a single piece of rotten wood, so he reaches out for Remus and calls, “Come to me!”

            “Yes,” says something beneath his feet.  Then a chorus of voices.  “Take it away.  Go away.  Go home and make certain that our house does not fall.”

            Sirius looks down in horror and sees gliding wraiths just below the oily surface.  “Are you…”

            “Go.  Take it.  Go.”

            “Padfoot!”

            Sirius manages to tear his eyes away and sees Remus standing on the edge of his boat, crouched to spring.  There is a moment where he disappears from Sirius’s vision—the only light is a bit of the lake that has caught fire near Sirius’s foot, and it has little range – and then Remus’s body hits Sirius’s, hard, and they start to fall backwards into the lake just as Remus’s fingers lace into Sirius’s and their mouths meet. 

           

 

_In this place called heavenly_   
_You were born here._   
_This place called heavenly_   
_You were born here._

_\-- The Decemberists – “The Tain”_

            The moon has long since set, and the stars twisted across the sky; now the sun is coming up, rising over the grey river and the glass spires of the skyscrapers; golden light engulfs the ancient monuments and faded church walls.  Illumination creeps into an open window in a dirty square somewhere in the warren of streets, and a warm breeze is stirring the frayed robes of the man who lies stretched out on the floor.

            “Moony?” Sirius asks.  He is lying on a bed with rumpled sheets and his legs are tangled up so that when he tries to stand, he nearly tumbles to the floor.  “Moony, where are you?”

            “Uggh,” Remus says from somewhere below.  “Uck.”

            Sirius rolls off the edge of the bed and the breeze brushes his hair into his eyes.  “Moony, are you all right?”

            “Do I sound all right?” Remus asks.  He opens one eye and regards Sirius through it.  “Are you dead?”

            Sirius laughs.  “I don’t know.”

            “Where are we?”

            Sirius looks back at the bed.  “Our bedroom.”

            “Oh.”  Remus sighs.  “Oh, oh.”

            “What?”

            “Based on how terrible I feel right now, I think we’re alive.”

            “Yeah,” Sirius agrees.  He waits a moment, but Remus says nothing else.  “Well, that’s good then.”

            Remus starts to laugh and can’t stop.  He rolls into the side of the bed and stuffs the sheets into his mouth, but he still can’t.  Sirius’s hands descend on his shoulders and tug him close; their bodies fit together perfectly, Remus’s back into Sirius’s front.  For a moment they enjoy the closeness, the flawlessness of their conjoined shape, and then Sirius’s hand snakes around and covers Remus’s mouth.

            “It’s not funny.  I was dead.”

            “So was I,” Remus manages.

            “You mauled me.  You kissed me into the lake of the undead.”

            Remus twists in Sirius’s arms and kisses him again.  A moment later, breathless, he says, “Like you didn’t enjoy it.”

**Author's Note:**

> Neutral Milk Hotel -- “Holland, 1945” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XLaFLztnL84
> 
> The Decemberists -- “The Tain” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UOYZuaLg0J0
> 
> The Decemberists -- “Red Right Ankle” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sYwkmPKsctQ
> 
> Eisley -- “Plenty of Paper” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EQF5a8dKzGY
> 
> Coldplay -- “Talk” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ag9y6_LfdyM
> 
> Neutral Milk Hotel -- “In the Aeroplane Over the Sea” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5Jdr_qMQFlM
> 
> Rufus Wainwright -- “Go or Go Ahead” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BTQLWYWnYB8


End file.
